


I Promise I'll Do Better

by 221BroadwayIron



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Arguing, Foster Care, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Harley Keener, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is Good With Kids, they're trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28695309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BroadwayIron/pseuds/221BroadwayIron
Summary: “Hey there, you must be Peter. I’m Tony and this little guy here is Harley.”“Hi.” The word was a little breathless and the teenager’s eyes darted up to Tony’s face, then over to Harley and back to the tips of his frayed, off-brand Converse. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you.”----------Or, Tony Stark has been a foster parent for a few years. He tries to avoid any kids old enough to talk back, but when a social worker calls him with a teenage boy who has no place else to go, Tony reluctantly agrees. Peter is almost completely self sufficient, used to foster homes where nobody pays much attention to him. These new arrangements are uncharted waters for both of them.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 132
Kudos: 612





	1. Heirloom

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based partially on a story one of my co-workers was telling about her nephew who is living with them right now and an article I read the other day. As soon as I finished with work, I outlined the whole thing, which I usually never do, and then wrote the majority of it a few weeks ago when I should have been writing final papers. Originally it was supposed to just be a one shot of what is now Chapter 3 and part of 4, but it evolved into something a little bigger!
> 
> No beta, so there might be mistakes, but I'm really proud of this fic. Hope you enjoy!

_“You remind me of who I could have been,_

_Had I been stronger and braver way back then.”_

— _Heirloom_ , Sleeping At Last

  
  


It never got any less nerve-wracking, the calls and the meetings and the placements. He had been bone-shakingly nervous before his first foster child, an adorable, wriggling little 9-month-old named Elizabeth. He had been nervous for the boy after her and the two sisters who came after him.

He had been nervous for Harley, the toddler who was currently perched on his hip and was well on his way to being Tony’s first permanent and forever kid, as soon as all the adoption paperwork could be processed. He was nervous before their first meeting, nervous for the several months of hospital visits so that Harley could see his dying mother, nervous before the funeral, nervous when Kelsy, his social worker, told him Harley was eligible for adoption, and nervous through all the oodles of forms to fill out.

And now, Tony was nervously waiting for Peter.

* * *

Kelsy had called him the week before. “I know, I _know_ you only do the little guys, but I have this kid—”

“How old?”

“He’s, well… He just turned 15, but wait! Hear me out, okay?”

“Listening,” Tony said, bracing the phone against his shoulder as he fished a cup of cheese cubes out of the fridge for Harley.

“He’s a good kid, Tony. His name’s Peter Parker and the family he’s with right now decided to step back from fostering for a while, so we’re trying to get placements for all their kids. Peter’s the oldest and even if you could just take him for a couple months that’d be great.

“He’s such a sweet guy, super polite, never any trouble at all, you know. Straight A student, has a job at this little deli in Queens. He loves science and watching movies. And it’s not like with the toddlers, Tony. Peter is the most self-sufficient teenager I’ve ever met. All he needs from you is a bed to sleep on and a roof over his head.

“Please, please, Tony. He— The older ones are way harder to place, you know that. Just six months, that’s it. He needs a place to go.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony finally caved. “If you can’t find another placement, I’ll guess take him. But only for a few months.”

* * *

So now here he was, waiting in the lobby of the apartment complex and bouncing Harley in his arms. 

“Ready, Harls?” Tony asked the almost two-year-old. “We’re going to have a teenager living with us. You excited to meet Peter?” The toddler blinked wide blue eyes up at him, one hand twirling his hair. Tony chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I bet you’ll like him though.”

The doors swung open and a mixed cocktail of adrenaline and anxiety spiked through his veins. A lady, who must have been Peter’s caseworker, stepped through, holding the door open behind her for the teen.

_He’s smaller than I thought he would be._

That was Tony’s first thought. He had been imagining Peter as almost a grown up, but it was clear this kid had some growing left. Because he was still a kid, after all, even though 15 years sounded positively ancient after spending so much time with children whose ages were counted in months.

He didn’t look the way Tony had expected a teenager to look either. Peter’s brown hair was neatly combed and the collar of a checked dress shirt just peeked out of the top of his blue sweater. He had a backpack and a duffle bag, both on the faded side but clean. As they walked over to Tony and Harley, he forced a smile and shoved his free hand behind his back, though not before Tony made note of its shaking.

“Hey there, you must be Peter. I’m Tony and this little guy here is Harley.”

“Hi.” The word was a little breathless and the teenager’s eyes darted up to Tony’s face, then over to Harley and back to the tips of his frayed, off-brand Converse. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you.”

The caseworker smiled and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Mr. Stark’s used to having babies and toddlers stay with him, but I know the two of you should be able to adjust quickly. I’m sure he’d love the extra eyes on Harley sometimes.” Peter shot him another, sharper, look before focusing back on the woman. “Unless you need anything else from me, I have to head out, but I’ll check in with you in a few days. Is that alright, Peter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, leaning into her brief hug, but not returning it.

“Well,” said Tony uncertainly after the lady had left and Peter made no move to instigate conversation. “Shall we head on up? I can show you your room.”

* * *

Now, somehow, he was the foster dad to a teenager and it was not going at all the way Tony had thought it would. He hadn’t had a troubled childhood exactly, but it hadn’t been a great one either and so his teen years were a mess of tense silences, slamming doors, and shouting voices. From that came a rebellious, trouble-making, smart aleck, and everyone had been relieved when he’d left home to start college early.

Peter was the complete opposite of teenage Tony Stark. He had the best manners of anyone Tony had ever met, he was quiet, and Kelsy had been right when she said the only thing the boy needed was the housing. Peter took the subway to school and to work. He never needed help with his homework and did all his own laundry. With his pay from the deli, he bought whatever school supplies and clothes were needed; Peter even covered his own phone bill. He always made himself breakfast, packed his own lunch, and would’ve done the same with dinner, except that Tony insisted it be a family meal and that the three of them sit down together.

When he got back in the evening, he would stop to say hi to Tony and Harley in the living room and grab a snack before disappearing into his room to study. After dinner was the same routine, except for the few nights Tony managed to convince the teenager to watch a movie with the two of them. Peter was friendly, but kept his distance.

And Tony let him. 

What else was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to push. If there was one thing he did know about teenagers it was that they liked their space. Tony tried to be open, tried to be welcoming, tried to make Peter understand that he was there if he ever needed him. He was trying his best, but the truth remained that Tony hadn’t the faintest clue how to foster-parent a teenager who didn’t need one.

So he made casual conversation during dinner, occasionally proposed a movie or a Saturday trip to the park, and made sure the snack bowl was well stocked with what he hoped were Peter’s favorites. 

He had just opened a new box of granola bars (with chocolate chips) to dump in next to the bananas, when he heard their front door swing closed and the heavy sound of Peter’s backpack thudding onto the hardwood.

“Hi, you’re late. Was Delmar’s really busy today?”

The microwave beeped and he pulled out the honey lemon water, pouring it into a sippy cup for Harley, who was coming down with a little cold. There was no answer from Peter, which was odd, but maybe he’d gone straight to get started on homework? Usually, though, he at least said hi first…

Tony passed the sippy cup down to Harley, before scooping the boy up. “Let’s go see what Pete’s up to, hmm?”

“‘Tay,” mumbled Harley around the spout in his mouth, head drooping onto the man’s shoulder.

“Hey, P— _Kid!_ What happened?”

Peter’s shoulder twitched in the approximation of a shrug. He ducked his head, as though that could hide the split lip or his rapidly blooming black eye. “Got m-mugged,” he whispered, voice shaking traitorously. 

“Oh, Peter… Come here.”

This he could handle. If there was one thing he’d learned from fostering younger kids, it was how to bandage scrapes and comfort children.

Carefully, Tony put his free arm around the teen, now able to feel the adrenaline tremors running through his body. He sat him on the couch, setting Harley—cuddly and sleepy with his honey lemonade—onto his lap, and tucking the blanket Peter usually took during movie nights across their legs. With a kiss on Harley’s head and a finger brush over Peter’s hair, Tony hurried into the kitchen, coming back a few seconds later with a wet washcloth and an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel.

“Hold that against your eye, bambino.” He pressed the ice pack into the hand that Peter wasn't holding Harley with. “There you go.”

Knees protesting, Tony knelt in front of the couch so that he had better access to gently wipe the blood away from Peter’s lip.

“I… I c-can—”

“Nope.” Tony grabbed the his hand and returned it, and the ice pack, to his face. “That needs to stay on the eye. It’s okay, bambino, I’ve got this. Let me take care of you, kiddo.”

“Sorry, s-sorry.” The eye that was not covered by a dish towel was growing suspiciously red. Peter blinked rapidly, breaths hitching. “I’m fine. I-I…” 

“Shh, shh,” Tony said softly, quickly discarding the washcloth and moving instead to sit next to him. (He was mostly cleaned up anyways.) The man wrapped a strong arm around Peter’s shoulders. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you, bambino, you’re safe. You’re safe. We’re right here.”

Harley sniffled and wormed his way against the teenager’s chest, suckling on his sippy cup. Peter’s arm automatically tightened around his back in a way that brought a smile to Tony’s lips. He rubbed his hand over the boy’s shoulder.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, kiddo?”

“‘M alright,” he responded, voice tight.

“You’re sure? You’re not hiding anything from me?”

Peter shook his head calmly, but against his side, Tony could feel the teenager’s chest seizing as he fought to keep his composure. Trying to figure out what to say, Tony let his fingers wander from Peter’s shoulder up to toy with the hair near his ear. Another shudder wracked his body.

“You don’t have to be tough right now,” the man finally said softly. “I can’t imagine how scary that was, but I promise you’re safe now, bambino. We’ve got you, we’re going to take care of you. You don’t have to hold it in.” A few glittering droplets splashed traitorously onto the blanket. “There, just let go. You’re alright. I’ve got you, bambino, I’ve got you.”

Shuddering, he gasped and then bit his lips together in a way that made Tony’s heart clench in sympathy. Using his thumb, he wiped the tears off Peter’s cheeks and gently pressed the side of his head until it was resting against his shoulder. With another gasp of air, the teenager twisted and buried his face in the soft material of his foster father’s shirt.

“Shh, sh-sh-shh.” Tony resumed toying with the chestnut hair. “I’m here, I’m right here.” 

As subtly as he could, he craned his neck to check on his other kid. Harley was still awake, but just barely, sleepily blinking half-closed eyes. With his free hand, Tony snagged the television remote and started flipping through channels, finally settling on Jeopardy and edging the volume down to a just-audible background noise. 

It was five or ten minutes before Peter lifted his head back up. He didn’t look over, but stared resolutely at the TV screen, even though he made no move to shift away from his position tucked into Tony’s side. He mumbled something and Tony leaned over to hear better. “What?”

“Boron’s not even a noble gas,” he whined, scrunching up his nose at the television where Alex Trebek was informing the unfortunate contestant of the same thing.

Tony chuckled at that. “The audacity. It’s like he doesn’t even know science. You should’ve been on there, then you could’ve showed them.” Peter gave a noncommittal hum. “So I was thinking, you want to order out for dinner?”

The teenager shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he mumbled in a way that Tony was coming to learn meant it actually _did_ matter and he just didn’t want to admit it.

Hoping that he was interpreting the Peter-speak correctly, he forged ahead. “‘Cause I really don’t feel like cooking, you know. What do you have a taste for? Nothing too wild, mind, I don’t think we’ll be able to get Harley to eat, say, gazpacho or anything.”

“Um… Asian?” Peter squeaked uncertainly.

“Yes.” Tony pulled his phone out from between two couch cushions and began looking up menus. “What about Thai? There’s a place nearby that’s good and usually doesn’t take too long. Harley likes the fried rice—or at least he likes throwing it—and maybe I’ll get him some broth too to help with his sniffles? Here, see if anything sounds good to you.”

Peter took the phone offered to him, scrolling down to the noodle dishes as Tony made commentary over his shoulder. “Pad thai?” Because it was a classic and pretty cheap and also because the adrenaline from earlier was still making his stomach do funny things.

“Classic,” the man agreed. “So that’s one pad thai and pineapple fried rice and soup, plus mine… I’m going to go order. You stay put,” he continued as Peter shifted a little on the couch. “I want Harls to sleep a little longer. He was a cranky-pants during naptime and wouldn’t go down. Be right back.”

So Tony ordered and Peter cuddled Harley while the toddler slept against his chest. He knew what Tony was really doing. Oxytocin and all that. Yet, it seemed to be working. His injuries still stung, but his heartbeat had stopped racing and his stomach was settling down.

Their food came and they ate it sitting on the floor around the coffee table. Star Wars—How had Tony not known that was Peter’s favorite movie before now?—playing on the television screen. When Tony left to put Harley to bed (which fortunately didn’t take too long), he came back to Peter apparently engrossed with the screen. He was still wrapped in blankets on the couch, but now his legs were carefully tucked under him, leaving an open space on the far end like an invitation for Tony to sit next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for more and please let me know what you thought!


	2. Neptune

_“I’m only honest when it rains._

_If I time it right, the thunder breaks_

_When I open my mouth._

_I want to tell you, but I don’t know how…_

_I want to love you, but I don’t know how.”_

— _Neptune,_ Sleeping At Last

  
  


After that night, things got a little better. Peter started opening up more, when Tony asked about his day at school he’d usually answer with a sentence or two instead of just saying, “Good.” Sometimes, he brought homework out to the kitchen table to work on while Tony cleaned up dinner and Harley toddled around their legs, alternately sucking on a block and tapping it against all of their chairs.

Then in May, the college student who would babysit Harley when they needed it graduated and moved to Colorado to get a job. Instead of hiring a new babysitter, Tony asked Peter if he’d mind picking up the slack whenever it didn’t interfere with school or his work at Mr. Delmar’s. Peter agreed.

And so that was added to their days. 

It was never more than twice a week, usually either right after school or mid-day Saturday, whenever Tony was needed at Stark Industries for a meeting or an R & D project. A few times, Peter watched Harley in the evening if his dad had an important gala and even once the two boys were allowed to come along. (Peter was very grateful to have Harley to occupy him that night. Not only did keeping a toddler content make the evening pass relatively quickly, it also proved a good excuse to escape anyone who tried to talk to him for any length of time.)

In his slew of past foster homes, Peter had cared for a number of younger “siblings”. Harley was by far the most enjoyable. Maybe it was because Tony never made it feel like he was breathing down his neck, making sure things happened exactly so. Tony was chill and he seemed to trust Peter with his son completely. 

Maybe it was because, even though Harley was, technically, a foster kid, he had been living in a stable home for most of his short life and, even if he couldn’t understand it all yet, would stay there for the rest of his life. He hadn’t dealt with the constant upheaval of living in temporary situations.

Maybe it was because Tony made it very clear that Peter was only responsible for his kid while he was gone. (And even then, if they needed something, Peter knew Tony would pick up the phone at the first ring. If the meeting was really, really important, it might get passed off to Happy or Ms. Potts, but an actual adult was always within reach and happy to help.) As soon as the man got back to the penthouse, Peter was off the hook for Harley duty.

Whatever the reason, it was nice. He was the first kid Peter truly _liked_ watching.

After school let out in June, there were a few more meetings for Tony and a few more days for Peter and Harley to spend together. The weather grew warmer and soon Tony was insisting the two of them get out and do things instead of just hanging out in the penthouse. He made a list of fun parks, interesting museums, and places Harley liked to eat. Some of them they went to together on the weekends, others were left up to the boys. Peter had never had the money to do those things as a kid, but he had a bucket list a mile long for after he finally got emancipation. Now if he so much as mentioned a place Tony was already pulling it up on his phone, and he had given him a credit card specifically to pay entrance fees and buy lunch.

Peter was used to doing things by himself and being independent, but that was always independently paying his own phone bill, _not_ independently picking whatever place he wanted to to take Harley for the day. Parks, science museums, library story times—New York provided an overabundance of potential things to do.

The phone bill wasn’t fun; this was.

And Harley was a surprisingly pleasant exploring buddy for a two year old. He was quiet and sometimes shy, but also very curious and rapidly opening up to the teenager. Peter lived for the handful of instances when he could get the toddler giggling so hard he’d almost tip over. 

A 15-year-old and a 2-year-old hanging out together wasn’t common though, and it was only a matter of time, really, before people started making assumptions about them.

* * *

The first time it happened, he was so busy cursing himself for how stupid and irresponsible he was that it caught him completely off guard.

They were at the zoo. Peter was constantly wide-eyed at the variety of animals he’d only ever read about and just barely stopped himself from completely inundating his phone with a million pictures. Harley loved it as well, toddling alongside the stroller and squishing his little face into the glass trying to get a better look at splashing penguins and sleeping lions.

Or at least he did at first. 

It was summer and the sun was beating down on them. Harley went from insisting on scampering around to wanting to ride in the stroller. Then the next time Peter glanced at him, the kid’s face was bright red and bangs matted to his forehead with sweat. Harley’s head lolled to one side to look up at him, panting slightly. And that was when Peter realized he didn’t have any water. None.

_Idiot._

“J-Just hang on, Harley,” he said frantically, fumbling the map open. “I bet there’s a drinking fountain or, or a— Okay, uh, wait, there! I see one!” 

Just around the corner from them and across from the giraffes was a grassy play area that promised food vendors and, hopefully, drinks as well. Peter yanked the shade down over the top of the stroller (Why hadn’t he done that earlier?) and took off.

_I can’t believe you forgot_ water, he berated himself on the way. _How do you forget water? It’s the end of June, it’s bound to be hot outside, you idiot._ Sweat beaded on the back of his own neck, though Peter couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or the adrenaline or just jogging while pushing a stroller. _And now Harley’s overheating and he’s probably going to get heat stroke or something and Tony’s going to be so mad at me. Crap, he’s going to be_ so _mad._

Panting slightly, Peter pulled the stroller to a more leisurely pace and joined the line for the friendliest looking of the vendors. He crouched down for an apprehensive peek at Harley.

“Hey, buddy, how you feelin’?” 

He scowled a little, limp fingers twisted in his bangs.

“I know.” Peter brushed sweaty hair aside to feel the toddler’s forehead. Even though his face was red, he didn’t feel as warm as Peter had been fearing. ( _Sunburned, did he get sunburned?_ He definitely put sunscreen on him.)“We’re getting water, I promise. Nice, cold water. And lunch?” He checked his phone. 11:47. “Yeah, lunch. We’ll get lunch too. Sound good?” Harley didn’t answer of course, but Peter still felt like he should be giving him the option to. Maybe he didn’t want lunch, you know?

“Ay, chico, what can I get you?” The Latino vendor grinned at the two boys.

“Oh, uh, water. Lots of water, like four waters,” Peter stammered. “Please. And a hotdog and fries.”

Four bottles of water, dripping deliciously with ice, were placed on the counter. “Vale, and for your hermanito?”

“He— Um, Harley’s not my b-brother. He’s— He’s, uh… I’m just watching him.” The teenager cringed. “Y’know. Like, babysitting? Yeah, babysitting, we— we’re not… related or a-anything.” 

They just lived together. Foster brothers, technically. But that didn’t change the fact that Harley was actually Tony’s kid (almost, as soon as the paperwork was finished, which was _soon_ ). Peter was just some teen he’d taken in for a few months because there was nowhere else for him to go. He’d made the rounds. 15-year-olds, even the well-behaved ones like him, weren’t what foster parents wanted. But if they were well-behaved, at least they got to stay for a while.

The man was still looking at him expectantly, eyebrow raised, and suddenly Peter realized he’d been asked a question with the brother comment. Wait, but he’d already ordered food for Harley… 

“Uh—” 

His brain was still racing too much to cooperate with his attempts to process. 

“Huh-dod,” spoke up Harley firmly.

That spurred Peter into motion. “Yeah, sure, another hot dog and do you— could I get a knife, like a plastic knife, too, do you think?”

“For to cut into pieces,” the Latino agreed. He gave Harley a conspiratorial wink. “He’s smart one. Two hot dog, one fries, four water…”

Peter paid quickly, ignoring the pang he still felt anytime he used Tony’s card. _It’s for Harley_ , he reminded himself, _and he’s rich._ They found a shady spot on the grass to park the stroller, and Peter laid out the picnic blanket. 

(How had he thought to bring a blanket—a freaking picnic blanket!—and not _water?_ Stupid, stupid, he was supposed to be better than that.)

After a rapid, internal debate about whether it was better to risk more sunburn or tempt heat exhaustion, the teenager stripped off Harley’s sweaty t-shirt and set about cutting his hot dog and bun up into bite size pieces. Harley plunked on his bottom to watch and drag curious fingers through the condensation on the water bottles. He stuck his fingers into his mouth.

“OH!” Peter bit back a curse. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, buddy. I’ve got to give you the— I’m sorry, here.” He twisted off the cap of one and held the water up to Harley’s lips. The boy drank eagerly. 

_Geez, I am just on a roll for screwing things up today, aren’t I?_

After that he was very, very cautious not to make anymore mistakes—cut Harley’s hotdog into tiny pieces, made sure he drank as much water as he could, didn’t let him go run in the sun, carefully planned out the rest of their afternoon to include as many indoor (and air conditioned) exhibits as he could. Between trying to pay attention to every little detail while also making sure Harley had fun, the brother comment flew his mind until late that night, lying in bed listening to the AC make weird noises. Then what the vendor had said slipped back in and Peter shuddered against the sudden wave of anxiety choking his throat.

* * *

The next time it happened, Peter was too preoccupied to correct the lady who said it.

They were at the park, some park with a fancy playground that Tony had found for them, and Harley was having a blast darting back and forth underneath the play structure as Peter attempted to chase him without getting stuck in the too small passageways. He was just trying to get through the “hull” of a pirate ship when there was a loud crunch of wood chips, followed by a woman’s voice, and an outburst of familiar crying.

“Shh, you’re alright. Brother’s coming, Brother’s coming,” the lady was murmuring, crouched down next to Harley with her daughter peeking over a shoulder. Peter came skidding to a stop next to them. “Look, look, here he is.” She rubbed the toddler’s back. “Here’s Brother.”

The words barely registered; Peter was too busy kneeling down and pulling Harley onto his lap. Gently, he brushed wood chips off tiny palms and away from the angry scrape on his knee. “You’re okay. I’m right here, Harley. Look, you’re okay. It’s just a little owie, promise. How about we go get it cleaned up, alright? Sound good? We’ll get your owie all better.” He rose, lifting Harley close. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, no problem,” she said, waving him off. “Mother’s instinct. Do you need a band aid or anything? I think I’ve got some Neosporin.”

“I— That’d be great actually.” Peter mentally ran through the contents of the backpack he’d brought, bouncing Harley on his hip. “I’ve got band-aids, but the disinfectant would be great, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh, not at all, not at all!”

While she dug out a small first aid kid from her purse, Peter carefully wet napkins with one of their (several) water bottles to clean the dirt off Harley. Fortunately, his knee was the only place where his fall broke the skin, and even though he whimpered while they were patching him up, afterwards he seemed most interested in inspecting the blue band-aid on his knee. 

Of course, when Tony got back from his meeting, dramatically slinging off his tie and draping it over a kitchen chair, that was the first thing Harley wanted to show him.

“Bu!” he exclaimed, pointing excitedly at his leg.

“Hmm? Blue? Oh, you little klutz, did you trip at the park again, silly?” Tony swept Harley up into the air and around in a circle, before settling down and booping him on the nose. “I bet Peter got you all fixed up, didn’t he?” He sent a grateful smile in the teenager’s direction, enjoying the faint pink that spread across his cheeks.

_That lady said…_

“I think so,” Peter stumbled, hurrying to cover over the memory of what the mother at the park had called them that was making him blush. ( _Brothers.)_ “I tried to wipe it off and then we put that Neosporin stuff on it and the band-aid. I can try and clean it better, if you want—I mean, I bet I could with something that’s not a wet napkin—but also it doesn’t seem like it’s bugging him or anything. He just thinks the band-aid is cool.” 

“No worries, bambino. Looks like you did a great job with it. I honestly can’t believe how clumsy toddlers are. He trips over _everything,_ which, I’ll admit, is kinda funny sometimes, but what can you do?”

And that was time number two.

* * *

After that, it was the waitress at a restaurant, then someone walking the pier, and after _that_ a man at another park. Peter never got better at stammering out cohesive responses; eventually he started letting it slide once in a while. Despite the guilt it sent swirling through his stomach at pretending something that wasn’t true, it was easier that way. When the girl who held the door for them at the library gushed about how cute “his little brother” was, Peter could just agree, instead of turning an innocent compliment into a long spiel about how they weren’t actually siblings and embarrassing all concerned in one fell swoop. When another waiter mentioned that his little brother used to have the same hair twirling habit, it was simpler to smile and nod and just keep on with their order.

He was always very careful to make sure it never happened around Tony, though. He didn’t know what exactly he was so worried about, except that maybe it seemed presumptuous and out of line for him to claim a place in Tony and Harley’s lives like that. He wasn’t, didn’t need to be in their family, he was just sick of correcting people and embarrassing himself all the time. And if that meant he pretended Harley was his little brother, well, Tony didn’t need to know that. If a tree falls in a forest and all that. 

If you tell a grandma on the bus that a kid is your brother and only a two-year-old hears you, does it really matter that you said it?

But Tony, well, Tony—

Peter was pretty sure Tony was the king of multitasking. Somehow, he was both a really great dad and a highly successful businessman. Peter didn’t understand. He could sit there on the couch, Blues Clues playing in the background with Harls clapping along, and inspect project proposals for the _multi-billion dollar_ company that he _owned_ as though it was nothing more complicated than tying a shoe.

“Pete,” he spoke up, not taking his eyes off the screen of his tablet, “can you grab your brother?”

_Brother._

It was followed by a groan and a whine which sounded suspiciously like, “Pepper, _why?_ ” Peter didn’t hear it because his mind was jolting like a scratched CD against the word.

_Brother._

_Brother._

_Tony said_ brother.

A scuffling sound from the kitchen snapped him into motion and Peter hurried into the kitchen to extract Harley before he could start on his newest favorite hobby: banging the doors on the kitchen cabinets. (So far it had ended in only two pinched fingers, but four mini-heart attacks for Tony.) Mission accomplished, Peter retreated hastily to his room to freak out in peace.

He paced, flopped on his bed, and then jumped up again a second later too antsy to sit still. He wasn’t even thinking anything, it was just the stuck CD of that moment replaying over and over and over in his mind.

_“Pete, can you grab your brother? … Pepper, why?”_

For some reason, Tony’s whine at his CEO got stuck in the loop too.

_“Pete, can you grab your brother? … Pepper, why?”_

As he paced, Peter grabbed some clean pajamas out of the drawer. There was no way he could focus on Pre-Calc like this, but at least he could manage a shower while his mind flipped out. 

_“Pete, can you grab your brother?”_

Cautiously he cracked open his door and peeked out, shoulders sagging in relief when the coast was clear. His heart thrummed at the mere idea of running into Tony right now; he didn’t think he could handle actually doing so. But nope, Tony was still sitting on the couch absorbed in his emails. He hadn’t even seemed _surprised_ at what had come out of his mouth.

_“Pete, can you grab your brother?”_

_“Pete, can you… your brother.”_

_“ … Pepper, why?”_

_“Can you grab your brother?”_

_“Pete…”_

_“ … your brother?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Pete, can you grab your brother?”_

The next time someone assumed they were related, Peter found he didn’t feel as guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a fan of little kid Harley (or Peter), please go check out the [My Brother, My Friend](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873138) series I'm working on!


	3. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

  
  


_“I feel the Earth shaking under my feet_

_I feel the pressure building until I can't breathe…_

_"And it all spills out;_

_Reckless but honest words leave my mouth_

_Like kerosene on the flame of doubt._

_I couldn't make it right._

_Alarms will sound,_

_But it's too late for holy water now.”_

— _Anger,_ Sleeping At Last

  
  


It started with a C.

A C, that’s all it was. One C. It wasn’t even a big deal, Peter told himself, he deserved it. He’d forgotten to read the book and his essay was a complete spider web of hogwash and bologna. He _deserved_ a bad grade on it. He knew that. And besides, people got C’s all the time. Heck, half his class probably got a C. People got C’s _all the time._

(Peter Parker didn’t.)

English was far from his best class, but that didn’t mean he had ever gotten anything less than a 91 on an assignment. He was a straight A student, had a freaking 4.4 GPA. One C wasn’t going to ruin his grade, wasn’t even going to make a dent in it. 

Unintentionally, his eyes snagged on his neighbor’s desk where a bright 58% decorated the top of her essay. Frustration built in the tenseness of his shoulders. What right did he have to be so upset? There were kids who had failed the quiz, were failing the _class._ He passed, he should be _excited._

He passed. 

But no, somehow his emotions decided that this was something worth making his throat sink down into his stomach and his limbs burn. He fought it back over and over. At this point, Peter couldn’t tell if he was more upset about the C or about the dumb way he was reacting to it.

* * *

He tried not to let it ruin his day, he really did. 

_That’s one little thing. Get over it, get over it. Move on, you don’t have to have a bad day because of one stupid C._

But being frustrated over the grade made everything else more annoying to the point where Peter spent half of his lunch period fantasizing about punching the top of the wobbly, scratched table until his knuckles burned. At Delmar’s, he appeased himself by slamming the finicky door of the freezer a little harder than was necessary each time. On the subway, he put on the calmest playlist he had and spent the ride back to Manhattan counting breaths and digging fingernails into his palms so that he could get his emotions controlled before he got back to the penthouse and had to be with Tony and Harley.

“How was school, bambino?”

“Fine, you know how school is.” So that he didn’t have to look Tony in the face, Peter began digging around in his backpack.

“At least today’s Friday, right?”

“Yeah.” _Whoopee, Friday._

He pulled out a folder and it must have been upside down or something because suddenly there were assignments cascading onto the floor of the living room. Peter very nearly let slip a cuss word as he dropped to his knees and began snatching up handfuls of paper to shove haphazardly back into his bag. Tony crouched as well and swept up half a dozen biology handouts.

“Thanks,” muttered Peter, face burning red hot in embarrassment. 

Without checking for any missed papers, the teenager escaped into his room. He let the backpack fall with a thump once he was alone and dropped beside it, face screwing up out of his control.

_Okay, you’re fine, you’re fine. Happens to everybody._

Fingers tightened around kneecaps. 

_At least you didn’t drop a jar of spaghetti sauce in the middle of the kitchen like Tony did last week. It was just paper, it’s fine._

_It’s a bunch of assignments I’m going to have to reorganize now on top of everything else—_

_Stop. Don’t think about it, just calm down. Calm down, calm down, calm_ down.

Very deliberately, he rose, shook out his arms, and flexed his fingers, taking three big gulps of air. 

_We’re good now._

He plugged in his phone, dumped the last of his water bottle into the pot of the baby mango tree Tony had on his windowsill, and tossed two balled up socks into the dirty laundry basket. His stomach grumbled, ready for an afternoon snack, but Peter shushed it, choosing instead to loiter in front of the mirror, finger combing his hair back into place. It grumbled again and he knew he’d need to go back out eventually, knew that, really, it was just his brain making this into a big thing. Tony—who laughed about the spaghetti sauce and wore $3 t-shirts from Walmart under his name brand suit jackets—couldn’t care less if Peter made a fool of himself in their living room.

_You’re good, it’s fine._

The kitchen was quiet when he went to grab a granola bar (the kind with the chocolate chips that were his favorite), but Peter could hear the quiet click of wooden puzzle pieces and the rumble of Tony saying something to Harley. It broke off, and then Tony’s voice came again, clearer this time. 

“Can you come here for a second?”

Something ominous stirred in Peter’s gut, but he came and obediently sat on the couch when Tony patted the cushion next to him. He glanced over at his foster father, though unable to actually make eye contact. Instead his gaze sunk on to the handful of familiar papers laying between them and the violent 74% scrawled across the top one. Peter was pretty sure his heart vaporized in his chest and took most of his throat with it.

“Is there anything going on, bambino?”

_No, I’m just stupid._

“It’s fine,” is what he said instead, forcing the words out from the back of his mouth. The unrhythmic sound of Harley’s puzzle was starting to make him feel the same way he had in the lunchroom. Every out of time clack was just another— 

His fingernails dug into his palms. _Calm down._

“Pete.” 

It was the gentle voice that did it. 

“I know you don’t like sharing stuff with me, that’s okay. But I also know what a great student you are and I know you wouldn’t just blow something off, even if it is English. Is there something going on I don’t know about?”

“No, I told you I’m fine!”

Peter could handle people being mad at him, he was used to fosters not caring _what_ his test scores were, but there was something genuinely caring, genuinely worried in Tony’s voice. He didn’t know what to do with that.

“Okay.” Tony held up his hands in a soothing gesture. “I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do—”

Something about the way he spoke unlocked something in the teenager he never knew existed.

“You could give me my family back,” Peter spat.

It was the gentle voice that did it. Unrufflable when he was already so frustrated. It was like a child laughing in his face while he was trying to calmly explain to them that they had to be quiet or else their foster parents would know they weren’t in bed like they were supposed to be. In the kid’s mind, it was a game, but Peter knew it was far more serious than that and it _grated._

“You know I can’t do that, bambino.”

“Do you think I wanted to live here?” He was standing now, hands clenched into fists. He’d known the request was illogical—there was nothing Tony could do about the situation—but that didn’t stop it from coming out of his mouth. “I don’t want to live here. It’s not my fault no one wants me; it’s not _my fault_ they won’t let me live on my own! CPS and its idiot rules. _I’d_ be fine, better than with all you stupid foster people—”

“No, _you_ are a child,” Tony pointed out, voice rising. Harley had stopped his puzzle, huge blue eyes darting between them. “You’re a child and you’re not ready—”

“I have been ready since I was TWELVE!”

“Peter—” It was tight with the struggle to keep an even tone.

“NO! You don’t get to tell me anything. You don’t care; you only took me because Ms. Kelsy convinced you I wouldn’t get in the way and I’d help with _him._ ” He jabbed a finger in the direction of Harley. “You didn’t want me either, so you can’t tell me what to do!”

“You’d better be grateful I told Kelsy I’d take your sorry butt or else you’d have been shipped off to some juvie-type group home in a ghetto neighborhood with a bunch of other brats.” Tony was on his feet now too. “You’re not getting emancipation; you’re stuck. They’re not going to trust you by yourself if they can’t even trust you to get a decent grade on some stupid high school quiz!”

“It’s not like I’m going to college or anything! Anyways, what’s it matter to you? _You_ don’t care about me! And guess what? I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU EITHER!”

The silence was somehow deafening.

For an instant they were both frozen in a broken tableau, bodies heaving from bellowing across opposite sides of the room at each other. Then Harley began to cry, weak, unsure whimpers, and the air splintered. Tony crumpled like a marionette onto the couch again, scrubbing a tired hand over his face.

“Peter—”

“I DON’T CARE!” And just like that he was screaming again, tears pouring down his cheeks and in some distant, detached part of his brain, Peter marvelled at how steady his voice still was. “I told you I don’t care, I told you not to try, so just shut up! You don’t want me and I don’t want to live here either. I _hate_ it!”

“Don’t—”

“SHUT UP!” Peter roared, now vying with Harley for who could be loudest. “Just shut up. I hate this place, I hate it, I hate it. And I hate you, okay Tony? Get it? I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!”

It echoed. Rang through the room like a whispered prayer inside an empty cathedral.

Nothing moved.

* * *

_I have never wanted to hit someone just to make them_ listen _so badly before._

That was Peter’s first, illogical thought.

Then something snapped and it felt like his conscious rushed back into his body and he was suddenly, painfully aware of the rawness of his throat and the way the skin was pulled taught over his knuckles from being curled into tight fists for so long. He quickly released them and took a shaky breath, feeling the tenseness in his shoulders slide down to form a knot in his stomach.

_Oh my gosh._

_What did I do?_

He thought he might pass out. Or throw up. Or both.

_I just screamed at Tony. I just—_

Dimly, he registered the man still slumped in the same position on the couch, face hidden from view under a hand. Peter opened his mouth, not knowing what to say, just that he had to say something had to make it better, had to—

“Don’t talk to me.” Tony’s voice was strained. He refused to even look in Peter’s direction as he picked up Harley to comfort him.

(Harley, it was always Harley first.

_He’s his_ son, Peter reminded his jealousy.)

Ice formed over the guilt and anxiety twisted inside of him. He rocked on his toes next to the couch, but Tony completely ignored his presence. After a few minutes, Peter turned and fled hastily to his room.

_Maybe not my room. Maybe he’s going to call Ms. Kelsy. Maybe—_

When he opened the door, he was greeted by his ratty backpack spewing school papers across the carpet.

_Maybe—_

Harley’s screaming cries followed him down the hall and it made Peter nauseous.

_You did that. It’s all your fault. You did that, Peter._

* * *

Organizing the contents of the exploded folder took Peter all of 15 minutes. Then he organized all of his textbooks by class on the bookshelf and pulled out his sweaty gym clothes to toss into the laundry on top of the socks. And after that, he lay sprawled uncomfortably on the carpet, listening to the echoes of Harley’s sobbing get fainter and fainter and waiting for Tony footsteps to approach his room. The room.

They didn’t.

Peter waited for a half hour, then 45 minutes. Nothing. Finally he stood and inched the door back open. Tony had to still be in the living room because he would’ve been able to hear if he’d gotten up and walked around the penthouse, but everything was silent.

He had to apologize. Needed to, needed to make this right somehow. He couldn’t get the image of Tony collapsed on the couch because of what he _said_ out of his mind. _He_ did that, his words, just because he couldn’t control his temper. He broke him. He—

Peter swallowed back the thoughts and hesitantly tiptoed down the hall.

Tony was on the couch still, staring straight ahead and cradling a dozing Harley protectively against his chest. His eyes were red, slightly swollen. Guilt thundered through Peter’s nervous system.

_I did that._

The teenager juttered to a halt by the armrest, chewing anxiously on his lower lip.

“T-Tony…”

“I said don’t talk to me, Peter.”

“Oh, o-okay, sorry.” 

His voice was so small, even to his own ears, that it was all but inaudible by the last word. He retreated again and, without anything else to tidy, paced back and forth next to his bed. Heart thumping against his throat and feeling sick, Peter willed back the burning in his eyes. He didn’t deserve to cry, he didn’t deserve to cry. He was the one who—

_I can’t believe I said that._

Everything that had come pouring out of his mouth. He didn’t know where those words came from. How had he said those things to Tony? Tony, who let him live here, cooked him dinner, trusted him with Harley and a million other things… 

_He hates me, he hates me, he hates me._

The air in the room felt like it was choking him; or maybe that was just his mind.

_“Don’t talk to me.”_

_He’s going to send me back._

_“I said don’t talk to me, Peter.”_

His breath caught in his throat. He liked it here, despite the stuff he’d said, he _liked_ it here. Liked Harley, liked Tony, liked the stupid room that was just beginning to feel like it was his.

_I don’t want to go away. I don’t, I_ don’t—

Finally, it all got too much. He needed to move, needed to do something to clear his mind, help him calm down, help him figure out how to fix things with Tony. If he didn’t, he was going to implode from the panicked thoughts racing again and again like long legged centipedes through his brain.

Dragging a sweatshirt over his head, Peter opened the bedroom door a crack. Still silent.

_“Don’t talk to me, Peter.”_

_He’s probably still on the couch, crying because of everything I said to him and holding Harley because at least he can make him feel better when I—_

He took a few steps, every little movement sharp and brittle in the suffocating stillness of the penthouse.

_If he cared, he would’ve already come to check on you._

Willing his hands to stop trembling, Peter crept out the back and down flight after flight of stairs until the building spat him onto the pavement. He resisted the urge to cran his head back to pick out the windows of their house the way he usually did. Well, Tony’s house. Instead he tugged his hood up, shoved hands deep into sweatshirt pockets, and set off at a brisk pace.

_“I said don’t talk to me.”_

Around him, New York breathed and he breathed with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter almost entirely in one sitting. I don't get angry very often, and especially not to the extent Peter did, so this chapter was _exhausting_ to write, but also kind of cathartic. 
> 
> Also, I'm curious, what are some parts (of this chapter or the rest of the fic) that you think are either particularly well done or could use a little work?


	4. Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, here you go! Hopefully it can live up to your expectations!

While Harley slept peacefully in his arms, Tony broke down. At a loss for what to do, he clutched the toddler to his seizing chest, trying to find comfort in the pressure of the warm bundle of limbs. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, didn’t know if there was anything  _ to _ say. Peter had… well, he had said a lot of things.

_ “I said don’t talk to me, Peter.” _

_ Please, I can’t handle anything else. I don’t know what you need, don’t know how to help you.  _

Hearing all of his fears coming true, come pouring out of Peter in a yelled confession hurt. It  _ hurt.  _ He was helpless in the face of it. 

_ I screwed it up. I was trying so hard and I thought it was working but I still screwed everything up—He hates it here, how did I miss that? How? What else have I missed? Could I be any worse of a dad? He told me he hates it here and I yelled at him and I— _

_ I  _ yelled _ at him. _

_ I can’t believe I yelled at him. I’m just like Howard. How could I? How could I do that? I yelled at him and he hates me and now what? _

_ What do I do? I have to make it better, but what do I do? What do I do, what do I  _ do _? _

The only thing he could think to do, the only thing he even felt  _ able _ to do right now, was just sit. Hold Harley and let the spinning thoughts run their course until they settled into something more solid and more rational. If he tried to do anything else, he was only going to make the situation a hundred times worse than he had already made it.

_ “I said don’t talk to me, Peter.” _

Case in point. 

He’d snapped at him. The kid was probably coming back to apologize and he’d snapped. At least Peter had gotten the hint and gone back to his room. Tony needed time, more time. Ride out the wave, wait for the storm to calm, then assess the damage and begin rebuilding. Or demolishing, if that was what was necessary, if Peter really wanted to—

_ No, breathe, calm down. Don’t overthink things before they happen.  _ Tony extracted one hand out from underneath Harley and wiped the dampness off his face. _ Wait for the dust to settle, and then keep going. _

* * *

It took him almost an hour and half to realize that Harley was well and truly out. Tony knew he really should wake the toddler up—It was already late in the day and if he let him sleep much more, putting him to bed was going to be a nightmare—but he also didn’t think he could handle the heart-to-heart he was going to have to have with Peter while having to keep an eye on Harley too.

So he carried the boy and tucked him into his crib for the time being, flicking on the baby monitor as he went. Harley snuffled a little as he was set down, one hand latching on to a stuffed elephant, but he settled easily after Tony rubbed his tiny back for a few minutes.

“I’m so sorry, buddy,” he whispered. He stroked a thumb over his eyebrow. “We’re going to figure something out, okay? And we won’t do anymore yelling, promise.” Tony adjusted Harley’s blanket and just watched him sleep for a moment. He was so peaceful. 

One down, one to go… 

It was quiet in Peter’s room and Tony hesitated outside of the door. Maybe he’d gotten into his homework, jamming out to music on his earbuds, or maybe he’d fallen asleep like Harley had.

_ (Please, don’t let him have cried himself to sleep…) _

Tony knocked lightly, so that if the kid was asleep he wouldn’t wake him, and then when there was no response quietly eased the door open. “Peter?” he whispered, eyes sweeping the neat desk and made bed.

It was empty.

No Peter.

* * *

Crap.

_ He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone— _

Tony clutched at the door frame to keep himself upright as he scanned every inch of the unnaturally tidy room.

“Peter?”

He stumbled out, into the living room and then through to the kitchen, inspecting every spot in their penthouse for his foster son. He had to be here,  _ had _ to be, because if he wasn’t… 

If he wasn’t, if Peter had run away, there was nothing Tony could do to make things right. Peter could be halfway across the city by now, could be lost or hurt or getting mugged again or crying in a coffee shop someplace because he’d gotten in a bad fight with Tony. And maybe he was, because he sure wasn’t here. 

Peter was gone.

Gasping for air because his heart seemed determined to take over the space his lungs were supposed to occupy, Tony collapsed onto the couch. His hands fumbled for his phone and pressed Peter’s contact.  _ (Please pick up, please, please—)  _ But even before the beep of the voicemail, Tony knew it was a lost cause because he could hear Peter’s phone buzzing against his desktop. 

Only the knowledge that if he woke up Harley everything would get a hundred times more stressful stopped Tony from cussing out the situation at the top of his lungs. He settled for a steady hiss of profanity as he paced frantically around the living room, rubbing at his chest.

What kind of teenager left without their phone? Not only left, but vanished into New York City without a phone or any way to call for help? Not that Peter had anyone he  _ could _ call because as far as Tony knew, the kid didn’t have any friends his age, didn’t have  _ any _ friends in general, and he couldn’t exactly go crash on CPS’ couch for a few nights while he figured stuff out. They would just send him off to some group home to wait for a new placement and then--

Tony stubbed his toe against the coffee table and let out a few extra vicious swear words. 

He’d thought Peter  _ liked _ it here; he’d seemed to genuinely enjoy playing with Harley and when the three of them would go out to eat together. Tony knew he wasn’t perfect, but he’d been trying and he’d thought he’d been doing okay despite being so out of his depth. Peter had seemed happy. But now, well… 

_ I’ve got to find Peter, _ he thought.  _ Once he’s back and he’s safe, we can figure out whatever we need to. I just need him back. _

What if he never came back? What if— Crap, what would having a kid run away do to Harley’s adoption? Why couldn't he have just kept his temper in check? He had acted just like Howard, and Peter hated him, and now what if— 

_ No. _

He was going to find him. Peter was going to come back. He had to,  _ had _ to. Tony snatched up his phone from the couch on one of his circuits, trembling fingers scrolling through his contacts list trying to find someone,  _ anyone, _ he could call to watch Harley or look for Peter. Anyone, anyone…

But Rhodey was out of the country and Pepper was at a big SI meeting which Tony had cheerfully declined an invitation to. His thumb paused over Happy, trying to remember what his Head of Security’s schedule was for the middle of a Friday night and if there was anyone,  _ anyone _ else he could call, when the doorknob clicked. It turned. Tony’s heart stuttered to a halt in his chest.

_ Peter. _

The teenager was frozen in the doorway, maybe not expecting to open the door and come face-to-face with his pacing foster father. His face went alarmingly pale. But Tony was the first to move, snatching up Peter by his ice cold sleeve before the teenager had a chance to do anything and dragging him over to sit on the couch.

“Peter, bambino, oh my gosh, are you okay? Crap, there you go.” Even as he spoke, Tony was piling warm blankets on to his lap with hands shaking from relief. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt or anything are you? Geez. You gotta tell me when you’re leaving, kiddo, please, or at least take your phone. I almost had a heart attack, I swear, oh my gosh. It’s after dark and I didn’t know where you were and…”

Peter let him ramble and fuss in silence, mentally running through the speech he’d been practicing as he walked. When Tony finally stilled and sank down in anxious exhaustion on the couch near him, Peter finally dared to peek over at him from the corner of his eye.

“Can I talk now?” he asked his knees in a small voice.

Tony let out a breath. “Yes, just… Wrap up in that, okay? You look cold, are you cold?”

“I’m okay,” Peter replied, but didn’t resist when the man swaddled him in another fuzzy blanket. He was freezing, actually, though he didn’t want to admit it. It had been chilly and foggy outside—too cold to be wearing just a sweatshirt. It was kind of nice now to be fussed over a little bit. It was— He swallowed the thought and clenched both hands together to keep from fidgeting. “So I, uh, have this thing— I mean, apology, sorry. While I was walking, I thought up this whole apology … thing and I, um, I’m just gonna do it.”

“Okay, so… Tony, I’m really, really sorry for  _ all _ the things I said earlier. I was upset about the grade I got on that essay, even though I know I deserved it, and I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you. A-And I said a lot of things that weren’t very fair to you, a lot of things that aren’t your fault at all, and I know you’re doing your best even though you don’t like teenagers and you don’t really want me. But i-it still wasn’t very fair to ac-accuse you of not c-caring just because of that, b-because— because I—

“I d-didn’t mean it. I don’t h-hate you, I don’t—” Peter sucked in a gulp of air. “I swear I didn’t mean any,  _ any _ of it, I promise… I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry, I really— I s-swear I didn’t m-mean it, I d-didn’t, I… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry T-Tony—”

He was stuttering too hard to make sense anymore, choking on sobs and jolting repeatedly over  _ sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it, didn’t, I swear— _

Emotions burning at his chest, Tony scooted closer on the sofa. “Hey,” he said and brought up a warm hand to begin rubbing circles on Peter's shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize anymore, alright? I know you didn’t mean it. You were angry, I get it. I was a little angry too. But how about we try to slow down our breathing before we get sick, okay? Can you do that, bambino? I’m going to be right here, let’s just calm down…” 

There was quiet in the room as Peter fought to get his seizing lungs back under control and Tony had to gently remind him more than once not to hold his breath to force them into submission. “There you go, breathe, you got this.” The hand on his shoulder never stopped, but did shift once to brush hair out of the teenager’s eyes.

“Can I say my bit?” Tony asked once Peter had got himself mostly under control again. At the teenager’s nod, he went on, “I’m sorry too, bambino. I… said some things to you that I shouldn’t have because I got angry too, and that wasn’t very mature of me. I need to be better with that. And I think we both ended up really mad and so we were just trying to say words that were going to hurt each other the most, even if they weren’t always true, right?”

Peter nodded, wiping a cheek off with his sweatshirt sleeve. “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to get angry.”

“Hey, pay attention here, important stuff… You’re allowed to get angry, Pete, okay? There’s— Geez, there are  _ so many _ parts of your life you have every,  _ every,  _ right to be angry about. It isn’t wrong, everybody gets angry, but I think maybe both of us need to work on paying more attention to what we’re saying even when we are angry, hey?”

Sniffling, the teenager nodded again.

“And also… listen, you don’t have to stay here, Peter. We can get you someplace else if you really don’t… If you don’t like it here that much. I’m sure, I’m  _ sure, _ we can find somewhere. I’ll put in a good word, we’ll figure something out so that you can be someplace you can be happy. Instead of—”

Peter was shaking his head even before Tony could finish. “No,” he said, swallowing in an attempt to keep his voice steady. “No, I don’t wanna… I like it here, I like it here. Don’t send me away,  _ please— _ ”

“I’m not going to send you away.”

“I wanna stay, I promise,” Peter continued, barely registering what Tony had said. “I don’t wanna go, I like it here. I do, I swear. I never wanted to leave, even when I was yelling all that stuff, I didn’t really mean I wanted to leave.

“I just— I just— I don’t even know.” He smeared new tears across his face, trying to dry them with a sleeve that was already too damp. “I guess… I knew how it worked at the other places. I would just do my own thing an’ stay out of their way an’ not get in trouble an’ that was good enough, y’know? I never… well, first couple places I tried to— like, called them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ and everything, but I’d just get used to it an’ then I’d be moving. And it was easier not to after, because if I didn’t get attached it didn’t h-hurt as much.”

“Oh, bambino,” Tony breathed. Filled with the inescapable urge to do  _ something,  _ his fingers moved to card through the short hairs at the nape of the kid’s neck.

“The th-thing with emancipation is… well, it’s like saying that none of this is permanent. Like there’s only so many more years of homes and then I’m out an’ I can make something that’s actually  _ real. _ It h-helped, something to f-fall back on that none one was gonna take from me. I used to d-dream about all the stuff I was gonna do—”

He choked on something that was halfway between a huff and a laugh, but painful-sounding either way.

“Like buy the bananas when they were still green or celebrate my birthday in the same place I had Christmas. That was my dream, that someday no one would be able to just say, ‘Sorry, nothing we can do, but—’ and then everything’s on it’s head an’ I have to pack up. I’d rather just stay p-packed for a few years. It’s ea-easier—”

“Kiddo…” 

“I know, it’s— I know,” Peter forced out, once again fighting for air. “But then you an’ Harley, it’s… I’ve been here almost five months and it’s  _ hard. _ Tony, it’s  _ h-hard. _ I wanna stay, I’ve never wanted to stay anywhere before. But I know my… caseworker said it’d probably only be s-six months, but I— I don’t wanna go someplace else when it’s just… when I— wh-when I  _ like _ it here, I actually  _ like _ it here—” 

“Pete,  _ Peter, _ breathe, bambino. Breathe. Alright, there you go, good, now look at me.” The hand that was behind the teenager’s head tilted his chin so he had no choice but to look Tony in the face. “You’re not going anywhere, capische? I called Kelsy a couple weeks ago, and you can stay with us until you want to leave. I should have told you earlier, I know, I was just… scared to. But Harley and I want you here, Pete, for as long as you want to be here. Until you’re old and grey and 31, even.”

Peter pulled roughly away from his hand and buried his face in the blanket on his lap. His shoulders shook.

Tony chuckled nervously, something twisting in his gut. Had he just messed more stuff up? “Please tell me those are happy tears?”

The back of Peter’s head nodded.

“Oh good,” he sighed in relief. “And, uh, for the record, I did take you in because they didn’t have another place for you, but I didn’t agree so that you could be some kind of live-in nanny for Harley. He already has a live-in nanny, which is me by the way, hi—” Tony counted it as a win that a noise almost like a laugh came from the direction of the blankets. “—And I hope… it never felt like you were supposed to be, did it?”

Peter shook his head this time. “Was kinda like having a little brother,” he mumbled in a muffled voice. Fortunately, Tony couldn’t see the bright blush that spread over his cheekbones as he spoke aloud the sentiment that had had guilt clawing at his stomach for most of the summer. But it also meant that Peter couldn’t see the fond look Tony got at his words. Harley loved having a big brother. And he liked seeing his boys together.

“Also,” the man continued, “if you want me to start buying green bananas, just say the word. Even though they’re gross like that.”

Peter actually chuckled at that and looked up from his hiding spot.

“There you are.” Tony grabbed him around the shoulders and manhandled the kid upwards until he was nestled firmly against his side, still buried in blankets. “It is hard; I’m sorry that it has to be so hard. But I want to try and make it a little easier for you. And I bet we can figure this out, don’t you think? Even though we’re both kind of bad at it right now?”

A nod.

“Atta boy. If we can get through that whole mess, I think we can make it through anything.”

* * *

They ate leftover pizza, still cold from the fridge, for dinner and Tony kept one arm wrapped around Peter the whole time, even though it meant he had to eat his pizza left-handed. After the scare of the empty bedroom earlier, he needed him close. The elbow pressed against his rib cage was reassurance that Peter was still there. He told the kid to pick a movie and one of the Lord of the Rings films played quietly on the TV as they ate.

The moment was ruined by the baby monitor, lying forgotten on the end table, as it crackled to life with Harley’s hey-I-woke-up-by-myself-and-I-don’t-like-it-at-all cry. Peter lurched upright and away from Tony’s grip as though he’d just been given an electric shock. On his face, the guilt of being caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t was plain. His movement also gave Tony ample opportunity to go dashing away to his son, but the man didn’t even sit up.

“I think you should go get him.”

“What?”

“Yeah, go get Harley.” He gave Peter a nudge. “Bring him out here, I’ll get some dinner for him, he can hang out with us. He missed you earlier, you know.”

Peter sent him an incredulous glance, which Tony only answered by another nudge which almost sent the teenager sliding off the couch. With reluctant obedience, Peter trotted down the hall and eased open the door of Harley’s nursery.

“Hey, mister.”

Harley had been hanging onto the bars of his crib with one hand while the fingers of the other twirled in his hair. As soon as Peter came in, though, both arms shot up in the air, reaching for him eagerly.

“Puh! Puh, up!” the toddler insisted, bouncing on the narrow mattress. He snagged a hold of Peter’s sweatshirt sleeve once he was within reach. “Up!”

“C’mere, you,” said Peter. Carefully, he maneuvered Harley out of the crib and onto his hip. Content now at being held, the boy’s head dropped onto his shoulder, hand still tangled in his bangs. Peter craned his neck downwards to be able to meet sleepily blinking blue eyes. “Tony said I can stay here,” he told him. “What do you think, Harls? That okay with you?”

His only response was a soft sigh blowing against Peter’s neck. The teenager chuckled.

“Sounds good, buddy. You wanna go see Tony? I think he’s making some dinner for you. Are you hungry? A hungry little mister? Yeah, I bet so. Let’s go find Tony then…”

From the kitchen came the beep of the microwave as the two of them headed to the living room. Tony reappeared a moment later, settling back onto the couch with a bowl of oatmeal cradled in one hand and the other clutching an assorted collection of bib, washcloth, spoon, and sippy cup.

“I’ll probably regret this,” said Tony, gesturing for Peter and Harley to sit on the couch with him. “Oatmeal in the cushions or something. But what’s a washing machine for?” he went on as he fastened the bib around Harley’s neck. “Besides, Peter and I got to eat out here, so it’s only fair you get a turn, right buddy? Gotta be just like the big boys…” 

Tony tickled Harley’s tummy and scooped him up onto his own lap when Harley made grabby hands in his direction, planting a big kiss on the toddler’s cheek as he went. To preemptively stop Peter from slipping off to do Peter-things by himself, Tony shoved the oatmeal bowl into his hands.

“My designated oatmeal-holder,” he proclaimed grandly. Then, tucking the washcloth over the teenager’s wrist, “and cleaner of messes before they ruin the sofa.”

Tag-teaming it, feeding Harley went quickly, though that could have been because he started nodding off even before Tony had removed his bib and tucked him into the crook of his elbow, propped up against the armrest and with a sippy cup of milk. He spread a blanket over the toddler and then took the bowl from Peter, moving it to the end table and dragging the teenager back to his position wedged against the man’s ribs.

“Are you sure—”

“Shh, Peter. This is nice, okay? This is what families do.”

“Oh.” He had no way to hide how rapidly his heart sped up at those words. 

_ Family. _

Wiggling until he was more comfortable, Peter let out a sigh of his own. “He’s lucky, you know,” he said, nodding in Harley’s direction. “That he’s gonna grow up here with you. I’m glad. When I was little, I wished… well, I wished for that. An’ I’m glad he gets it, even if I didn’t. He deserves it.”

“Aw, bambino, you deserved it too, kiddo. You still deserve it.” The sensation of Tony’s thumb stroking the hair behind his ear again was nice. “I’m sorry you didn’t get it sooner.”

Feeling his body relaxing, Peter let his head drop onto his foster father’s shoulder. “How come you never call Harley that?”

“Hmm?”

“‘Bambino.’ You only call me that, never Harley. How come?”

“Because it’s yours. Harls has his own nicknames. And, I think, there are some of them I use for both of you, but not that one. That one’s all yours.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. It’s just you, bambino. No one else.” 

Tony smiled fondly down at the teenager, listening as his voice grew sleepier and sleepier. Harley was already out and Peter was quickly following him. Tony turned his attention back to the TV, where the ending of the movie was playing, and drew his legs, as best he could, onto the couch. He cradled both his sleeping kids against his chest, feeling their breaths deepening in sync. Peter shifted, whining a little, and Tony ran his fingers over the boy’s hair until he quieted.

“There you go,” he whispered. “It’s alright now, bambino. I’ve got you. I promise, I’ll do better.”

  
  


_ “Cause you are loved, _

_ You are loved more than you know. _

_ I hereby pledge all of my days _

_ To prove it so, _

_ Though your heart is far too young to realize _

_ The unimaginable light you hold inside. _

_ “I'll give you everything I have, _

_ I'll teach you everything I know. _

_ I promise I'll do better. _

_ I will always hold you close, _

_ But I will learn to let you go. _

_ I promise I'll do better. _

_ I will soften every edge, _

_ I'll hold the world to its best. _

_ And I'll do better. _

_ With every heartbeat I have left, _

_ I will defend your every breath _

_ And I'll do better.” _

— _ Light, _ Sleeping At Last

  
  


_ El fin. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! So... What did you think of it? Was the ending satisfactory? Any favorite parts?
> 
> (Thank you guys for all of the lovely comments on the last chapter, by the way. They really made my day!)


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